


someone good.

by aspiringaspie



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Hallucinations, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Misogyny, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Recovery, Slurs, Stream of Consciousness, Violence, because. it’s patrick bateman, its american psycho, might include smut, rating for gore, y’all sleepin on pat/jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringaspie/pseuds/aspiringaspie
Summary: Patrick Bateman never killed anyone, and Paul Owen is alive and well. Bateman is engaged to Evelyn Williams. His secretary, Jean, is in love with him.He can’t stop thinking about her.
Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Jean
Comments: 17
Kudos: 23





	1. THE NEXT DAY

**Author's Note:**

> WOW AN AMERICAN PSYCHO FIC,, HOW RELEVANT
> 
> after four years, i decided that it was enough. there aren’t enough pat/jean fics, and this plot has been festering inside of my brain ever since i saw the show and read the book maybe three times.
> 
> (this canon is going to be a mix of musical and novel. evelyn is engaged to marry patrick at the beginning of this, just as in the show, and i will be referencing moments from both media!)

The crack of dawn. I do not move from where I lay as light peeks through the blinds. My eyes are wide open, burning from lack of sleep. The Sony digital clock that rests on my nightstand informs me that it is nearly six in the morning. My muscles are impossibly stiff in my current position, but I have no desire to move. I’m reminded of the Burberry raincoat hanging in my closet, brand new and never once having been used since the Christmas of 1980-whenever, and my body convulses at the thought. My hands grip the sheets beneath me. I can’t feel them. Sensation has abandoned me completely. Nothing is real. An hour passes, and after attempting to focus solely on the last episode of  _ The Patty Winter’s Show _ and not of Paul Owen’s mutilated corpse, I decide to start my day. I am completely naked as I enter my bathroom, staring into the mirror upon the wall. My reflection does not look back, and I clutch the sink, breathing shallowly. The texture of the marble basin feels distant. I cannot see myself. Had I ever seen myself? Who is Patrick Bateman? I stare into the glass, tempted to shatter it, unaware that twenty minutes have passed. I do not work out, and instead step into the shower, turning the temperature to freezing cold. I barely jerk as the water hits my skin. Vaguely, I realize that I am using a honey-almond scrub before the water-activated gel cleanser, and proceed to scrub harder into my skin. When I turn off the shower head, I realize that I hadn’t washed my hair. Using a comb, I stare at the figure in the mirror and slick it back to the best of my ability, knowing full well that everyone at Pierce & Pierce will notice that I hadn’t properly showered or exercised or slept or moisturized my skin. My balance wavers and I sob, nude and soaking wet on the tiled floor. Having violently thrown up in the toilet, I do not find myself hungry. I am wearing a pair of Ralph Lauren boxer shorts as I walk into the kitchen, no longer wet from the shower that had apparently lasted an hour and a half. I’m scrambling for pill bottles as I open the cabinets, searching for something to ease the tightness in my chest, deciding to swallow two Xanax dry. I open my freezer, a distant memory of a decapitated head, sitting among frozen food, flashing in the back of my mind, and I stumble to the trash can before purging what little food had settled in my stomach. The neon clock above my fridge reads nine o’ clock. I’m late for work, and Jean, Jean, Jean, will no doubt call my phone in the next twenty minutes. The thought of Jean has me heaving and gagging again.

I don’t face my reflection as I hurriedly slip on my button up shirt and trousers, fingers fumbling with the buttons of my navy blue, two-piece Alan Flusser suit. I’m unable to stop thinking of Bethany’s blood at the sight of the red Valentino Couture tie; it isn’t until another two attempts that I succeed in tying it in a decent knot. I do not know where my Rolex is, and the idea of the passage of time would have sent me into a panic attack had the Xanax not begun to kick in. I grab my Sony Walkman from the kitchen island and settle my headphones over my ears, Huey Lewis and the News blasting, cutting me off from the world. I do not tie my loafers as I slip them on, the thought that Jean, Jean, Jean, may phone me any moment being incentive enough for me to grab my briefcase and leave. 

The drive in the cab to Wall Street feels longer than usual. Huey Lewis’s voice is unable drown out my thoughts as I contemplate the upcoming wedding, Tim Price’s reappearance, and Paul Owen, who isn’t dead. Paul Owen, who should be dead. Patrick Bateman, who hasn’t killed anyone. Patrick Bateman, who hadn’t slept more than three hours all night, hadn’t worked out, hadn’t washed his hair, and is shaking. I’m shaking. I’m gripping my knees as the city passes in a blur, just as time is a blur. How many years has it been? I am twenty-seven years old. I am twenty-seven years old and I can’t remember life before Harvard.

The journey to my office passes like a fleeting memory. I do not engage with anyone. I stare straight ahead, attempting to not read the lips of my colleagues, focusing only on the lyrics to “I Want a New Drug” and marveling at how revolutionary the album  _ Sports _ truly is. I catch a glimpse of Jean Jean  _ Jean Jean Jean  _ Jean and then I’m spiraling into a black hole of nothingness and in entering my office I stumble and nearly fall to my knees. Regretfully, I pause Huey Lewis mid-song and set my Walkman on my desk. The briefcase falls from my grasp, clicking open, its contents spilling out. I step over them, taking a seat in my chair at the desk. I am sweating profusely, hands clasped together tightly, nails digging into my skin. I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper, remembering when I’d tried to cook the dismembered body of a nameless girl and then I’m trapped in my head again and trying to comprehend how there hadn’t been any ad in Times, why Paul Owen is still in London, if I ever owned an axe or a power drill, if the Onica is hung upside down. My thoughts race at such an alarming rate, and while I consider tossing myself out of the window, there’s a knock at the door. 

_ “Patrick?” _

I choke on a breath. Jean Jean Jean Jean _Jean Jean Jean._ I recall her palms resting upon my face, lips inches from mine, and yesterday I had thought nothing of it but what if it hadn’t happened what if nothing was real what if Jean Jean _Jean_ _Jean_ hadn’t seen me at all what if what if _what if._

“Yes?”

The Xanax is working overtime to calm my pounding heart. Blood rushes in my ears. My nails dig hard enough into my skin to draw blood and I do not feel the pain.

“Can I come in? I wanted to speak with you...”

I tell her yes, because why wouldn’t she be allowed in, and when she enters my office, I have to focus hard on inhaling and exhaling. Jean Jean Jean Jean is wearing a silken off-white blouse and jet-black skirt that hugs at her waist, both of which do not seem particularly expensive, but one of which she may have bought at Chanel or Betsy Johnson. Her chocolate brown locks are tucked behind her ears, and I notice she’s wearing diamond earrings that appear real and were most likely a gift from her sister. Does she have a sister?

“Patrick, you’ve...missed a meeting with Frederick Dibble today.” I realize she’s speaking. I’m gripping the edge of my desk now. “Timothy Price asked about you a few minutes ago, he wants to meet with you at Harry’s in one hour.”

The mention of Tim would have sent me flying into a rage if I hadn’t taken anything to settle my nerves. I clench my teeth and nod. She stands there, expectant, perhaps, but my train of thought is no longer consistent, growing fuzzier and fuzzier. It occurs to me then that I am exhausted and on the verge of losing consciousness, but the absolute terror of losing my grip on reality prevents myself from falling asleep. I choose instead to bring all of my attention to Jean, Jean, Jean, my secretary who is in love with me, who confessed her feelings to me, and immediately I realize it’s a mistake because I could have hurt her, and then a vivid image of the bloodied and tortured escort girls appears in my line of sight only they’re both  _ Jean _ and I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“... _ Patrick? _ ”

I meet her gaze. I wonder: can she see anything in my eyes? Is there anything there but complete emptiness? Concern is evident on her features. I decide to speak, not wanting her to remark on my appearance, the greasiness of my hair, my bloodshot eyes.

“Tell Price no. I can’t make it.” I haven’t brushed my teeth. I glance down in shame, wondering if I have a pack of Altoids somewhere in my desk drawers. 

I see Jean Jean writing in her notepad, always the dutiful, faithful secretary, and she seems somewhat relieved. I’d given her a promotion. I hadn’t thought I’d be seeing her again after yesterday, I thought I would be behind bars, strapped to the electric chair. That’s what happens to serial killers. Have I ever killed anyone? I don’t understand. I don’t understand and I need something stronger than Xanax. Something to take my mind off of the taste of human flesh and the feeling of Jean’s blood on my hands. But she’s not dead. None of them are dead.

“...meeting with Scott Montgomery at 4:00.  _ Patrick? _ ”

I nearly topple off of my chair. It’s a struggle to speak. “Yes, Jean?”

“Are you feeling alright? You look...”

Jean falters and I flinch, preparing myself for the inevitable insult.

“...worried about something.”

I let out a long exhale through my teeth. I wish I could cry and yell and jump on my fucking desk and scream that I’m not real and this is all a dream and nothing matters anymore. But I don’t. I unclench my fists, eyeing the blood that drips from the cuts made by my fingernails. I set my hands on my lap.

“I’m  _ fine _ , Jean Jean  _ Jean _ ,” I assure her with a faux grin, but I know she isn’t convinced. She will most likely check up on me multiple times now. The last thing I need is to see her and be reminded of  _ everything _ . “Just...get me a, uh...glass of Evian water and cancel all my plans today. I’m leaving early.”

Jean is obviously shocked by this, but thankfully she doesn’t question it. “Just say ‘no,’ right?”

When Jean had confronted me about our encounter in my apartment, I’d told her to  _ Just say “yes.”  _ I’m going to be sick again. “Yes. Just say no.”

I remain in my office all morning, drinking half a glass of ice cold Evian water and surfing through the pages of the  _ Times _ . I catch a glimpse of a familiar face in one of the articles, and for a moment I think it to be Reed Robinson, then it looks like Paul Owen, and though it is neither, I find myself drowning again. The Xanax has suppressed all anxiety, and I am floating in my own mind, a waking dream. Paul Owen, who is alive. Paul Owen, who I may not have even encountered on the Christmas of 1980-something.

I wander into the men’s room, half lucid, and smash the half empty glass in the sink. A shard embeds itself in my palm. I pull it out. The agony is present for a moment, and I chase it as it fades away. Crimson drips from the cut and I’m on the verge of tears again. 

Somewhere around two o’clock, I leave the building, paper towels wrapped around my hand. I do not bring my briefcase or Walkman. I don’t take a cab to the American Gardens building, instead deciding to walk. I know the walk will be long, and yet, when I blink, I am standing at the entrance doors, blood dripping steadily from the now damp makeshift bandage. I don’t know how much time has passed. I do not remember the trip from Wall Street to West 81st Street. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.

The lanky man who greets me at the front does not say anything, giving me a strange look. I mutter an insult under my breath, approaching the elevator with trembling legs. My hands are shaking so badly I manage punch five other buttons, smearing red on the shiny steel. The doors close, and I am alone. The ride to the eleventh floor fills me with an unexplainable sense of dread, and I nearly pass out as the walls close in on me. Just as I feel I may die and I’m nearly praying, the ear-piercing sound of the elevator’s bell goes off and I’m lurching forward, making my way to my apartment. I hadn’t even locked the door when I left that morning. The thought doesn’t alarm me as I step inside, aware now of the dull throbbing in my injured hand. Blood drips onto the polished hardwood floors. The glowing blue numbers from the clock in the kitchen read 4:29 PM. I wonder if time is an illusion. I wonder if Tim is an illusion. I pass out on the sofa.

I’m woken by a shrill ringing from my phone. The Xanax has worn off and three hours have passed. I sit up as the call goes to voicemail, my head pounding. The nauseatingly high-pitched tone of Evelyn Williams, my fiancée, is projected through the speakers:

_ “Paaaaaatrick. I hope you’re not forgetting about our date at Barcadia tonight! I made the reservations myself, just for the two of us, at eight. We’ll discuss the wedding, our future, oh you _ know.  _ I’ll be waiting there for you, and you’d better not be more than five minutes late, or you’ll be getting a very angry phone call from me. Oh, and Tim says hi, by the way. Bye, sweetie!” _

On the trip to the bathroom, I glance down at my arm. The sleeves of my Armani suit are stained with blood,  _ my _ blood, and I’m so disturbed by the sight and smell that I remove every layer of clothing on my body and run my hand under the sink faucet. I can’t feel the water as it flows along my fingers, through the deep gash. I wonder if I ever cut myself in the first place. After washing the dried blood, I change into a black Armani suit and trousers, and Ralph Lauren tie; I slick my unkempt hair back once again, this time with Thompson mousse. I then open the medicine cabinet, finding a bottle of Valium, gulping a pill down with a handful of tap water. I take a step back, staring into where my reflection should be. There is nothing.

I decide to meet with Evelyn, knowing that the future is inescapable. True to her word, Evelyn is standing just outside of Barcadia, a fur coat from Anne Klein hiding her figure, only the skirt of her dress visible, hanging below her knees; her pure gold Betsey Johnson hoop earrings just barely graze her shoulders; she’s wearing black Manolo Blahnik pumps, and while they do not compliment her attire in the slightest, I choose not to say anything yet. 

“ _ Patriiiiick _ ,” hums her sickeningly sweet voice, tilting her head back and planting a kiss upon my lips. I don’t offer her a grin. I feel nothing. “I  _ knew _ you’d show up. You couldn’t resist a romantic night out with your future wife.”

I resist the urge to vomit. The idea crosses my mind that I might as well just bite off Evelyn’s face and drink her blood, but then I realize that the concept is just that, a mere fantasy, and this is reality, and Paul Owen is alive. The nausea returns.

“Yeah,” I huff as we enter the restaurant, mumbling to myself. “Isn’t it just  _ swell _ .”

The maitre d’, an overweight, balding man, leads us to our seats, ones that aren’t even remotely impressive, far in the back and practically shut off from the public. I am shut off from everyone. I am not here. The Valium soothes any oncoming tremors, entrapping me in the prison that is my own mind, and I wonder if I’ve been there the whole time.

“ _ Hummmmm _ ,” Evelyn drones, setting her coat on her chair, revealing a low-cut, blue dress from Calvin Klein. She opens her menu, leaning over the table, showing off her cleavage. I do not open my menu. I’m not hungry. “What’re you having for the first course,  _ honey _ ?”

My eye twitches. I consider the knife, tucked safely away in my suit, but then I remember that I never grabbed a knife before leaving my apartment. I sit, stunned for a moment, staring dumbly at the menu before me. I open it, but the words before me are a blur. 

“Your decapitated head on a platter with an apple in your mouth,” I manage, and she laughs. She’d misheard me, if I’d even said anything. Had I spoken? 

“Oh  _ Patrick _ , I’ve always loved your sense of humor.”

Evelyn giggles, and then our waiter arrives and we order (truly, I don’t know what I ordered, it spills from my mouth without a second thought). When it arrives, I find I can only stare at my meal, unable to make it out, only seeing misshapen, colored blobs before me. I lift my head to address Evelyn, but suddenly it isn’t Evelyn, my  _ future wife _ , who is sitting across from me, eating her food, but my secretary Jean, and she isn’t eating, she’s covered in blood, her brain and exposed, her eyeball hanging out of its socket, tears welling in her one good eye, and she’s mouthing  _ I love you, Patrick  _ and then I’m jolted back into reality and draining an entire glass J&B I forgot I’d even ordered.

Evelyn’s going on about the wedding, but I find I cannot pay attention, unable to see anything but Jean Jean Jean Jean, sobbing and bleeding and missing various limbs and she’s calling me a monster. It isn’t real. No one is dead. Paul Owen isn’t dead. Bethany isn’t dead. Victoria isn’t dead. Christine isn’t dead. Sabrina isn’t dead. They’re not dead. They’re not real —  _ what is real? _

“Patrick, are you even  _ listening _ to me?” the blonde in front of me groans, sipping on her chardonnay. My fists clench, and I am hardly aware of the cut on my hand.

“Fuck this,” I grit out, a cackle escaping me, borderline manic in fashion. “Look, Evelyn—  _ Christ _ ...”

For once, she looks interested in what I have to say, setting her food down. It only irritates me further. I wonder why I haven’t killed her already, but then again, when had I ever killed anyone?

“This...whatever we  _ had _ , it’s gone, mkay?” There’s a flash of Jean, who’s in love with me, in my vision. My stomach churns. “I can’t do this.”

Evelyn rolls her eyes. My face burns in fury. “Come  _ on _ , Patrick—”

“I’m fucking serious,” I huff, licking my dry lips. “I’m not  _ fucking _ marrying you.”

A beat of silence passes as she finally,  _ finally  _ takes it in.

“ _ What?! _ ” Evelyn exclaims, her tone someone rising in pitch. Others notice and I reach out and grip her wrist, forcing a grin.

“I said, I can’t —  _ fucking _ — do — this,” I articulate, my other hand fisting the tablecloth. It is my bad hand, and blood seeps into the material. “Being with you, Evelyn...”

She grasps onto me, and I jerk away. Her eyes are wide, begging. “Patrick,  _ sweetie _ , just talk to me. We can work this out like before.”

“We’ve never worked  _ anything _ out, Evelyn.” The Valium isn’t working. Nothing is working. “God, you stupid  _ bitch _ , you don’t get it, do you?”

A flicker of Jean Jean  _ Jean _ takes Evelyn’s place and I nearly burst into sobs before blinking  _ hard _ and she disappears. Nothing but an illusion.

“Read my  _ lips _ ,” I stress, breathless, “you’re not — terribly —  _ important _ — to — me.”

Her eyes well with tears and I stand, bumping the table and knocking her drink over. I almost double over in laughter at her plight.

“Patrick, how could you do this? What about _ us? _ ” she wails, pitifully, making a scene. “What about our  _ future?! _ ”

I can’t contain myself, and bark out a laugh. “There’s no  _ us,  _ there never has been. The future isn’t real. There’s no future.”

Blood trickles steadily from my wound as I storm out of Barcadia, my face hot with anger, and I want to scream, I want to find a hardbody and gut her like a fish, feast on her entrails, but I can’t, I never could, I never did, I never will. I still see Jean’s mangled body everywhere I look and I can’t think straight and I’m sprinting down the alleyway towards nothing, towards everything, wanting  _ wanting _ . I pass a black man, a bum, and come to a halt. He’s holding a cardboard sign that reads  **I AM HUNGRY AND HOMELESS PLEASE HELP ME** . I stand and stare at him, at the thin, starving dog at his side, and I can’t see I can’t feel I can’t do anything but run because that man should be blind, that man should be fucking maimed because I did it I  _ did _ it I stabbed his fucking eyes out I remember I remember I remember.

I remember nothing.

I make it back to my apartment. The blood has dried. I step into the shower, fully clothed, and scrub my skin until it’s raw and bleeding. I shed my sopping wet clothes and crawl into bed. Nightmares of Jean  _ Jean Jean Je _ an dying by my own hands plague my mind. I wake up and can’t feel my heartbeat.

I can’t feel.


	2. HOSPITAL VISIT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patrick’s goin through it. tw for panic attacks, overdose, and mentions of suicide

When I come to for the fourth time, shaken from a nightmare involving my secretary who is in love with me, it’s still dark out. A quick glance to the clock on the nightstand tells me that I’ve been attempting to sleep for approximately four hours. The hand I’d cut throbs in pain; I stare down at it, perhaps to truly confirm for myself that I hadn’t imagined the injury, and notice that the skin around the wound has grown red and inflamed. Blood oozes, staining my linen sheets. There are multiple blotches of red on my duvet, in fact. I recall the many occasions I’d brought in my bloodstained bedsheets (and other articles of clothing) to the dry cleaners near my apartment building. There had never been any blood. There hadn’t been any stain to remove. Maybe there never was a dry cleaners ten minutes from the American Gardens Buildings in the first place.

I don’t realize I’m trembling until a sharp knock on the front door alerts me, thrusting me into reality. At least, I think so. I cannot distinguish fantasy from reality. Warmth runs along my chest. Distantly, I remind myself that it is my blood, and the sharp agony from the wound flares up.

_“Bateman!”_

I blink as Timothy Price’s voice echoes throughout my apartment. Remembering the knock at the door, I’m jolted into a more conscious state. The combination of Xanax and Valium is disorienting. Price is here, and I can’t fathom as to why. My movements are sluggish as I attempt to slide out of bed, so it’s no surprise that Price should appear in my bedroom doorway before I can throw my legs over the side. I can’t read his expression in the dark, but his vision apparently isn’t as impaired as mine, as he's suddenly in front of me, grabbing my arm. I nearly scream in his face and jerk away from him, but everything is moving in slow motion, time is still catching up. 

“What the fucking _fuck_ , Patrick,” Price is spitting, and I can see his face somewhat, a stream of light from the bathroom illuminating his features. He’s furious, examining the source of the bleeding with furrowed brows. “When the hell did this happen? Jesus, Evelyn really did _see_ _this_...?”

The mention of Evelyn makes my entire body tense, my uninjured hand tightening into a fist. I clear the fog from my vision, remembering Barcadia, remembering the _wedding_ , remembering Jean...

“Ev’lyn...sent you?” I’m trembling harder. I need something. I need a drink. I need to get fucking high. I need to get away from everything, just find something else, something _real_. 

“Shit...hey, Patrick, look at me.”

Price grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. I notice the blood on his suit. My blood. I wonder if it will stain. I wonder if I will ever leave a mark on anyone.

“Christ, how much of these did you take?” he asks, grabbing an empty Xanax prescription bottle from the floor. I don’t remember how it got there. I don’t remember taking anything when I’d returned from Barcadia. “Sit tight, man. I’ll be back.”

He strides into the bathroom, likely to wash his hands of the blood. I’m bathing in it. Price has left, and I am no longer anchored, instead being dragged into the abyss, a sea of fake memories, of the faces of those who had suffered at my hands. The weight of an axe handle in my hands; the warm, wet intestines in my grasp as I laughed until I cried because none of it mattered anyway; the dozens of women I’d fucked until it was boring and it didn’t feel _real_ and so I’d tie them up and do as I pleased because I was in control but it didn’t feel, it never _felt._ No one knew. No one knows. 

I am no one. Another face among the crowd. Nothing distinguishes me from Marcus Halberstam or Nigel Morrison. Names are meaningless. I have fit in; and I am lost.

Tim Price’s voice drones on from afar; he’s on the phone with someone. I wish I could escape as he had. To jump off of a balcony and follow the tracks to freedom.

_“...yeah, it’s bleeding real bad, it’s nasty, all infected and shit. I’m pretty sure he’s taken, like, a shitload of Xanax and god knows what else, fuck, he doesn’t look good...There was broken glass in the men’s room? Jesus...yeah, I’m taking him now...you sure? You don’t have to, I just wondered—...uh-huh. Okay. Yeah, yeah...alright. Guess I’ll see ya then, Jean.”_

My head starts to pound. Price had called _Jean_? She can’t know about this. The anxiety that is swelling insane me is so intense I nearly keel over and vomit. Price enters the bedroom and before I can protest, he’s reaching into my closet, grabbing at a casual Armani shirt, Calvin Klein underwear, and Versace sweatpants.

“Get dressed.” He throws the clothes at me. I’m too dumbfounded to say anything, lazily grabbing at the underwear. “We’re going to the hospital.”

My mouth runs dry. I am being put in an inferior position, and though I do not feel on the verge of a panic attack (not _yet_ ), I feel lost, scared. The process of dressing myself feels foreign, and Price has to help me, the situation embarrassing and far too intimate for my taste. I flinch at his touch, something he responds to with an irritated sigh; he doesn’t bother buttoning my shirt, merely sliding my arms through the sleeves as I stare vacantly towards the darkness, wondering when it will inevitably swallow me whole. 

I can’t push myself to my feet, and so Price is there for me again, an arm around me, helping me up, and I think of Harvard, of all the times we’d get shitfaced and nothing mattered and I _felt_ . I’m stumbling against him as we reach the elevator, watching with an odd fascination as the numbers count down — **10, 9, 8, 7, 6** — and this is it, this is what will happen when I die, this is my trip to Hell (if there even is one). Then we’re outside and the chilly night air makes me dizzy. Price manages to hail a cab, just as I pass out for the _fifth_ time that night, faintly aware of someone’s hands on my face, smacking gently, and the darkness is swallowing me now, finally, pulling me back. Jean’s screams are deafening; I kiss her to silence them.

Daytime. Cracking my eyes open takes an incredible amount of effort. When I take in my surroundings, I realize I am not in my apartment on 81st street, nor am I covered in blood. I wonder if I’m still dreaming, or worse, hallucinating. The room is stark white, as well as the (incredibly stiff and uncomfortable) bed that I’ve been laid upon by _someone_. Maybe I’d come here myself. I cannot trust my memory anymore.

A woman — blonde, unattractive — stands at my bedside, clipboard in hand. I open my mouth to speak, but only manage to feebly croak.

“Take it easy, Mr. Bateman,” she says, a hand on my shoulder. There is an IV in my arm, a tube pumping fluids — or _something_ — through my veins. I’m wearing a sort of nightgown, my clothing discarded. My hand, the one I’d cut, is wrapped in bandages. There’s a faint beeping, tracking a heartbeat that doesn’t exist.

The lady in scrubs hands me a cup of water, which I greedily finish in three large gulps. I can’t remember being so thirsty before. She stands, expectant, and I consider telling her to fuck off because I can’t handle her just _standing_ there doing _nothing_ , before she grabs my empty cup. Her voice, grating to hear, thick with a Brooklyn accent, drags on once again. 

“You must be _confused_ , sweetie. You were out like a light when they brought ya in. That cut o’ yours was nasty, but the doctahs ‘ad ta worry ‘bout your stomach first.”

She adjusts the bed, clicking a button, slowly pushing me into an upright sitting position.

“Stuffed ya body full o’ charcoal, they did. Ya swallowed a bunch o’ pills, almost died, even!”

I blink, reaching up to touch at my throat with my uninjured hand. I had never undergone surgery, or any procedure before, really. I never thought I needed my body to be altered, as I am already in perfect health and shape. I have never been severely harmed. I have never had anyone _invade_ my body without me being conscious. I remind myself, then, that I myself have hallucinated ripping out people’s entrails with my bare hands, and I wonder if those who operated on me had felt the same rush of power as I had.

The door opens. An old man enters, wearing a white coat, thick glasses perched on his nose. He smiles towards the nagging bitch who holds out a fresh cup of water for me, which I accept.

“I see you’re awake, Mr. Bateman,” he remarks, voice barely over a whisper. I have to strain to hear him. “I’m Dr. Matthews. Looks like you really needed those twenty hours.”

My eye twitches. From when I’d passed out in the taxi to this very moment, twenty hours have passed. Discomfort encompasses me. The very blood rushing in my ears is wrong, the strong smell of disinfectant in the air is wrong, my hair is wrong wrong wrong. I have lost time. There is another gap in my life. What had happened between meeting Paul Owen at Evelyn’s Christmas party and the day after his disappearance? If I hadn’t murdered him, what _had_ I done? Had I ever gone to that empty apartment? Had I ever _ever_ …

“Mr. Bateman?”

I blink, hard. I almost throw the liquid in my cup on my face, but immediately decide against it, warily taking a sip.

“ _Yeah…_?” I sound tired. Weak. I force myself to breathe.

“I said you should be very lucky,” the doctor continues, though I am not fully paying attention, “for one, you’d almost severed the nerves in that hand of yours, _and_ you let it get infected. But, thankfully, your hand should heal just fine now, just don’t remove the bandages for another couple of weeks. 

“Secondly, your friend — _Bryce_ , I believe? — informed me that you’d practically swallowed a whole bottle of Xanax. We used activated charcoal to cleanse your system, however, and you’ve recovered fine.”

I nod, but it’s not in agreement. Throughout the night, I must have taken a few pills. I doubt it had just been Xanax, I most likely swallowed a few Valium as well. The sound of an empty pill bottle hitting the floor echoes in my head.

“Probably Valium,” I add, and like a cartoon character, blood drains from his face.

A beat.

“Sorry...are you saying you combined Valium _and_ Xanax?” 

He’s incredulous, and I almost laugh at his outrageous expression. Even Brooklyn Bitch is shocked, her eyes wide as saucers.

“Young _man_.” 

Dr. Matthews is approaching me now. His authoritative tone reminds me of my father, despite the fact that I can’t remember my childhood at all. I am confident that in any other situation I could easily rip out his throat, but now? I am the patient, the sick one. It’s shameful to admit that I am terrified.

Rather than ending my life as I’d expected, he instead asks me, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, “I’d doubted it before, but I’m almost certain of it now. Mr. Bateman, do you have a death wish?” 

I don’t know how to answer truthfully without sounding insane — which I am, but that’s unimportant now — so I settle for a shake of the head.

“Mr. Bateman...you know there are hospitals for those who are a danger to themselves,” he says, and this time it is my own skin that pales. The doctor glances at my bandaged hand. His breath is foul. “When you’d come in, I thought you’d tried to take your life. Mr. Bateman, those places aren’t like in the movies, you know—”

“ _I’m fine_ ,” I hurriedly gasp, forcing a grin, unable to comprehend the thought of being locked in a padded room, wrapped in a straightjacket, screeching like a banshee for help. “ _No-oo_ mental hospitals for me, doctor. You know how this shit is, the stress of work just got to me, and I must’ve...taken _too many pills_.”

I’m grinning like a fucking clown, the muscles in my face aching. The man releases a breath, patting my leg underneath the flimsy sheets. I inhale sharply at the contact, swearing under my breath, but thankfully it looks like he’s heading out. Thank god.

“We want to keep you here another night, Mr. Bateman. We will be sending in a social worker to speak with you,” he explains, and I just want him to leave already. “Your girlfriend-sorry, your _secretary_ is here to see you, she’ll be taking you home. She’s waiting outside now, if you’d like to see her.”

I grab at the blankets then, a lump forming in my throat. Jean is here. I hadn’t wanted Jean to be here. God damn it, Price had called her last night, I can hear his voice with such clarity now. The once steady rhythm of the beeping, of my nonexistent heartbeat, suddenly spikes.

“ _She_ …” 

I grasp for words, noticing just how cracked and dry my lips are. I swallow the rest of the water, which while cold, is hardly refreshing. Jean had brought me a Perrier water yesterday. I’d smashed the glass in the sink. I’d cut myself.

“O-Okay.”

He leaves, but I’m not comforted, unable to think of anything but Jean Jean _Jean_ , and what she will say. She’s far too nice to laugh in my face, that’s a given, but I can just see her expression now. That frown of hers, the way her brows knit together when she’s concerned or confused, her little sigh when she doesn’t know the right thing to say. She’ll say “Oh, _Patrick_ ” in a tone of voice that indicates sadness, perhaps disappointment, and I will assure her I’m fine while pondering over the fact that I’ll never understand why she cares so much. It isn’t hard to see how she could fall for me. I’d been nothing but charming towards her, and in turn, she’d always been compliant towards me. More than that, in fact. I don’t have any desire to be rude towards her. She’s not like everyone else. She’s not like Evelyn. She’s Jean and she’s _my_ secretary, and before I told her to wear different clothes, she’d preferred pants and sneakers that must not have been over one hundred dollars all together.

And then Jean is walking in, wearing a Gucci sweatshirt and jeans that appear old and worn, as if she’d gotten them from the Salvation Army. She isn’t wearing makeup, and her hair is tied in an upright ponytail. It dawns on me that I’ve never seen her so vulnerable. My stomach flips, but I can’t pinpoint if it’s anxiety.

“Jean,” I say, a genuine smirk forming. “Jean Jean _Jean_ , how’ve you been?”

“Well...better than you,” she quips, dryly, trying to humor me. There are dark circles under her eyes. “Shit, sorry, bad joke.”

I arch my brows. I’ve never heard her swear before. My smirk widens.

She continues, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. “I’ve been here since Tim called at, uh...1:00-ish? He told me what happened and I came as fast as I could.”

I gulp. Jean cares too much for everyone else. Doesn’t she understand how little other people’s lives matter?

“Where is he?” I ask, and Bitch Nurse is near me again, adjusting the machines around me or something. I send her a glare, then turn back to Jean. “Price.”

Jean pulls up a chair and sits down near me. I hold my breath. “Left around 6:00. I figured I’d stay until you woke up and take you home.”

“Ah,” is all I can respond with, holding back my rage about how that fucking son-of-a-bitch had called Jean about this. I focus on snuffing out the flames of my growing anger, which I manage to do as I look at my secretary who loves me. I think, _Does she remember that night?_ I want to ask, but it’s difficult to speak when she smiles sadly like that.

“We were worried about you, Patrick.” Her hand covers my untainted one. I’m speechless. “Tim and I. He thought...it was a suicide attempt. If there’s anything you want to tell me, Patrick…”

I don’t understand how they could be worried for my life when they wouldn’t even notice my absence.

“I’m fine, Jean, I _promise_ ,” I lie, running a thumb along her knuckles. She’s staring up at me with those wide eyes again, and I can _feel_ her hands cupping my face and pulling me in, I can _feel_ her lips inches from mine.

It’s a memory. It had been so breathtakingly real. And yet I have no way of knowing if it ever happened.

The subject changes, and Jean mentions the wedding being called off. I clench my teeth and don’t answer, really _really_ not in the mood to discuss it. Jean picks up on this, thank fuck, and tells me that I’d left my suitcase and Walkman in my office, which I’d completely forgotten about. As expected, she’s retrieved both items for me, and I’m almost on my knees, praying, thanking God for an escape for the next hour. I grasp the Walkman in my hand and turn _Sports!_ to full volume, letting my eyelids slip shut. Jean doesn’t let go of my hand.

The sedatives I’m given help me rest, and I’m more than thankful that it is a dreamless sleep. I wake up around 10:00 AM, shifting uncomfortably, and decide to pull out the cassette of _Face Value_ , only listening to “In the Air Tonight” on loop. Jean is still here, and she has fallen asleep on my lap. I wonder if she thinks she owes anything to me for something I’d done. She’s put up with too much of my bullshit.

The social worker, a middle-aged woman with greying hair, arrives at noon, not long after I finish my shitty hospital lunch. I watch as Jean leaves, unable to follow her, and the unwanted visitor takes her place. I don’t remember her name when she introduces herself. I don’t answer every question truthfully. I put on a mask and tell her that no, I don’t have suicidal tendencies, and no, I do not vividly hallucinate violent torture and murder. It’s eerily similar to my appointments with my psychiatrist, in fact. Just convince her to leave, and in no time, Jean will be allowed back in, and the facade will melt away.

The threat of being institutionalized is too great. I don’t want to go to one of those asylums. The idea of being in one of those places is more horrifying than being put on death row, and I don’t...know... _why_. 

This terrible fate seems to be sealed for me as the social worker returns. Sharp pain stabs through my injured hand. I’m incredibly tense, listening to her speak with bated breath, only able to make out a few of her words.

“Some options…outpatient… _inpatient_ …therapy…”

_Not there,_ I mentally chant over and over, and then she’s saying my name but I just manage to rasp out “outpatient,” saying other words that are somehow coherent, somehow make _sense_. I’m given papers to sign and my hand is so fucking unsteady that the pen almost slips from my grasp and I don’t know what I’m signing, I just want Jean back. An image of myself, strapped to a gurney, being electrocuted, flickers through my thoughts and I think I’m probably going to die, right now. I nearly sob at the sight of Jean twenty minutes later.

When it’s time to go home, Nurse Ratched removes the IV and _finally_ leaves. I’m given privacy to dress myself into a change of clothes that Price had left for me. It isn’t anything special, a polo shirt from Ralph Lauren, Jean Paul Gaultier pants, and Moschino socks. When I’m finished and the curtain is pulled away, the old man from before returns and hands Jean a bottle of pills — I watch him whisper into her ear with confusion, why can’t he talk to me? — as the unbearably annoying nurse helps me into a wheelchair. I’m pushed out of the hospital, Jean trailing behind me. It doesn’t occur to me how dizzy I am until there’s a cab ready for us outside and I can’t get to my feet. Jean is there for me, always there for me, her arm under mine, helping me into the backseat. Colors swim before my vision as I situate myself, self-conscious as Jean sits beside me for some reason.

She knows where I live, of course. I push the words _Haven’t you ever wanted to make someone happy?_ to the back of my mind as we enter the American Gardens Building, and Jean is with me, holding my hand, helping me stay upright. I am not ordering her to push the buttons to the eleventh floor. I am not ordering her to guide me down the hall to my apartment’s front door. She is under no obligation to do anything. 

“Here,” comes Jean’s voice, and I’m lying on my couch. She drops some sort of tablet into my free hand, setting a bottle of water on the cushions. “For the pain, it’s morphine.”

I take the medication without anything to wash it down.

It works startlingly fast. I’m floating on air as soon as Jean leaves to go somewhere (my room?) and she’s muttering something. She has a pile of clothes in her arms that she’s collecting in a basket. I recognize them. They’re _mine_. But I don’t have the strength to ask what she’s doing, or that she should stop, because there’s a fuzziness in the back of my skull, and I’m thinking a lot about Jean, her brown eyes and knitted brows.

“Jean…” I call, and I’m laying uncomfortably on the cushions, but I can’t move, and then Jean is in _front_ of me and I laugh. “You’re…good.”

I don’t know what I’m saying, but everything is numb and good, good as Jean, like the euphoria after sex that I’ve never had. Jean is glowing, and her face is red. She’s blushing.

“Pretty…” I mumble, and the last thing I see before falling asleep is _Jean_ and for once, everything’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve been really hesitant to publish this chapter in terms of medical accuracy, so i hope i did a decent job lmao!!!!


	3. SCHEDULING APPOINTMENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oop this one is a doozy. warning for mild sexual content, slight homophobia, and vulgar language. also, thank you all for your nice comments, it means so much to me!!!!

In the late hours of the day, I wake to find myself still sleeping on my pure white sofa, drenched in sweat and still wearing what is quite honestly a poor excuse for an outfit. The events of the past few days return in flickers of memories, like the montage of a film, though much more disjointed and warped, and then I’m reminded of the fact that it’s been a month or so since I last watched  _ Texas Chain Saw Massacre  _ and I find myself missing how real it felt. The pictures flashing before me of Jean, of an old woman asking me about my mental issues, don’t seem real enough, and I’m almost certain I’ve hallucinated all of it. Sitting up, I lift my hand, finding that it not only aches, but is bandaged. I realize then that maybe not all of it had been imagined, and the relief that washes over me is orgasmic.

Just as I start to remove my shirt — well,  _ Price’s _ , and after having examined it earlier I’d started to question his fashion sense — Jean enters. I stop, dropping my arms. Jean is dressed as casually as she had been last night, only I cannot find a single clothing piece of hers to be of much importance. Her jeans seem just as worn as the other pair, and her t-shirt, purple with Prince’s face on it, is tacky and unattractive. She is not inherently unattractive, though, she never had been, even though she looked better in a skirt and heels than pants and sneakers. Her brown hair is tied up in a high ponytail, a few messy pieces falling in her face. I repress the urge to stand and brush them away.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she comments, smiling — she seems relieved? — and stepping towards me. For a moment, I think I am imagining her as well, but then she puts a hand on my shoulder and I have never  _ felt _ something so visceral before. “How’re you feeling? The doctor told me that the morphine would help if the pain got bad, and it looked like you needed as much rest as possible.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, cheeks flushing. She looks as if she’s done something wrong, though I really don’t know what. Stupidly, I ask her, “Can...you put on...Talking Heads…?”

Jean’s standing erect at that, muttering an “of course” as she walks over to where I tell her I keep my CDs, sifting through them. She asks if I want any album in particular, to which I reply that I don’t care. My head starts to ache and I lie back down. Seconds pass, and I hear her say, her tone light, “I didn’t know you liked Whitney Houston,” to which I do not reply. The light from the windows is blinding. I close my eyes as the click of my Sansui stereo system’s CD player opening sounds throughout the apartment. The song “Burning Down the House” starts playing through the six-foot, Brazilian rosewood, Duntech Sovereign 2001 speakers not long after (not too loud, thankfully). I open my eyes just as Jean once more comes to my side, an obedient servant. It’s not arousing in the slightest to see her being submissive to me, it never has, though I never could, and still cannot, figure out why that is.

“Need something?” she asks. I shrug. Her purse sits on the glass-top, Turchin coffee table, and she searches through it, pulling out an orange pill bottle. “The morphine is for emergencies, but the doctor said you could take two, and  _ only _ two, Xanax a day.”

She hands me the container and I don’t hesitate in screwing open the cap, popping the two tiny, white pills in my mouth and swallowing them dry. No use in taking too much in front of Jean, it would only upset her. As I set the bottle down on the table, Jean swipes it and stuffs it in her bag, which I notice is not designer.

“Tim and I also decided to confiscate all your pills.”

I go rigid as she says that. “Really? Why...would you do that?”

“Patrick...” 

I assume she really  _ really _ wants to say something. Something about my health and the hospital visit, probably. It would make sense as to why they’d do that, and I can’t believe I’d be so stupid as to let myself overdose. I don’t know how I will manage the rest of the day with only two Xanax. I don’t know if the hallucinations will get worse. I don’t know if the itching in my head, the  _ screaming _ , will grow louder and louder.

“It’s for your safety.” 

Jean breaks me from my thoughts, my anxiety swelling. The Xanax is starting to kick in, however, and I wonder how long it will be before I break down. I nod towards her, trying not to explode.

“I’ll drop by every day to give you them, mkay?” she assures me, and her kindness is too much for me.

“Thanks, Jean,” I practically choke out, sitting upright again, starting to breathe heavily. Before I can add anything, she cuts in, reminded of something.

“Oh—! I tried, uhm...calling your brother and mother, but they never got back to me,” she says, acting as my secretary even outside of Pierce & Pierce. “I’ll let you know when they do.”

I shrug. I do not care about my family, and in fact, I’d much rather not see them  _ now _ of all times. I shakily stand, watching as Jean awkwardly moves to help me; I assure her I’m fine, running a hand through my greasy hair, considering taking a shower.

Jean fidgets with her hands and stares at the floor, making me wonder if she’s being purposefully timid to be cute or something. “I hope you don’t mind that I slept here last night. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” She blinks, waiting for a response, which I don’t give. She adds, “I also took your sheets to the dry cleaner’s. They were covered in blood, so...I can pick them up for you.”

I nearly grin at the absurdity of all, as I had been delivering what may or may not have been bloody sheets for a decent amount of time. I wave her off and insist, “Have Price get them. You’ve already...done so much for me.”

I don’t know why I’d taken the burden off of her hands; I’m also quite surprised by how much sincerity had been my tone. Really, I still have yet to understand why Jean is going out of her way to help me. How can she be so naïve? I’d underestimated how faithful she is. Is this out of the kindness of her heart, or is this her backwards way of making me fall in love with her? I’d told her I never wanted to make anyone happy. I think I did. I don’t want to think about that now, and if Jean doesn’t leave soon, I have a feeling I’ll be seized by another panic attack.

The bashful grin that had spread across her face from my words is so lovesick it’s almost sickening. I could tell her to do anything and she’d obey, wouldn’t she? Maybe she isn’t as intelligent as I’d thought before. Does she know that I’ve spent an unknown, but fairly long amount of time imagining myself killing women, homeless people, and even children? Jean can’t see past my smooth exterior. But even now, that seems to be falling apart. Will she run away when she discovers who I truly am?

Who am I?

“Do you want me to leave?” I hear Jean ask, standing in the same exact spot, waiting, waiting. She wants my permission. It’s pathetic, but somehow, I find it in my cold heart to pity her.

“If you don’t mind.” Realizing how harshly I’d spoken, I continue, “I need time to myself. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Her expression is that of complete trust in me. She really is an enigma. A lovestruck enigma who is not nearly as wealthy as I am, and definitely not as wealthy as Evelyn or Courtney or Elizabeth or Bethany. Who — is —  _ she? _

Jean is gone in the blink of an eye, and I take the time alone to cross into my room — Jean has straightened up the mess I’d left, of course she has — and enter the bathroom. Stripping myself of my clothes and stepping into the shower, I stick in face in the stream of water from the shower head, the temperature nearly scalding. The Xanax has already taken effect, but I know it won’t be for long. Redirecting my thoughts from Jean to vivid depictions of gore in horror movies do not calm my rising anxiety, as the two start to blur together, and I would really rather not start hallucinating Jean like that again. I try jerking off to take my mind off of things, it’s been a while since I’ve done so and I know it’ll give me at least ten minutes of relie, but then  _ Jean _ comes into my mind again, and the orgasm that follows almost instantaneously is powerful enough to make my knees wobble. I’m left with my thoughts for the next five minutes as I wash my body with whatever soap I grab off of the side, I don’t really bring myself to care, because everything’s so confusing and I don’t even know if Jean even visited this morning or if it had all been a dream.

“This Must Be the Place,” the ninth song on the album  _ Speaking in Tongues,  _ blasts through the walls. I step out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my waist. David Byrne sings  _ “cover up and say goodnight, say goodnight...”  _ as I stare at my injured hand. It is embarrassing for me to wear such bandages that show what had happened to me; it’s almost comparable to a cripple. I gag in disgust and dress myself, slipping on a white Armani t-shirt and boxer shorts from Comme des Garçons and returning to the living room. I turn off my stereo as the album ends, and it’s in that moment that my phone rings. I hadn’t even bothered to dress for work, neither had Jean, so I let it go to voicemail.

It’s Jean. What a surprise. I skim through my videotapes, trying to ignore the fact that I hallucinate Torri and Tiffany’s dead bodies on the cover of my copy of  _ Lesbian Vibrator Bitches,  _ listening half-heartedly as the ringing goes on and on and on. Finally, as I forget my tapes for the moment and walk into the kitchen, Jean’s voice cuts through the silence—

“Hey, Patrick. Sorry, forgot to mention that, uh, you’ve got to schedule an appointment with... _ Dr. Miller _ at the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. The doctor at the hospital recommended him to me, he told me to remind you...”

I pour myself a glass of Evian water, listening to my secretary drone on, my hand trembling. I’m already seeing a therapist, and yet they still want me to speak with someone. They think I’m suicidal or something, of course they do. I don’t think they’ll ever know what’s really wrong with me — neither will I. I wish I had a Halcion, but then I remember that Tim and Jean have confiscated all my pills, and I really don’t know how I’m going to handle this.

Jean drones on, listing the number for the hospital. I sigh as she hangs up, deciding to call and schedule an appointment. It can’t be too unbearable. At the very least, they aren’t admitting me for being the psycho that I probably am. It’ll be just like the sessions with my psychiatrist, which I realize I probably have missed the past few months’ appointments with.

_ “Hello-o-o?” _

I’ve dialed the number and am balancing the phone in the crook of my neck, making my way to the sofa with my drink. The person on the other end, female, sounds way too similar to the blonde bitch who’d been my nurse at the hospital. I try to remain as courteous as possible.

“ _ Hiya, _ Pat Bateman here. I’d like to, ah...schedule an appointment with someone, I guess?”

_ “Who are you seeing, Mr. Bateman?” _

I run a hand through my hair, still wet from the shower. I haven’t applied my skin care routine today. “No one, yet. Dr. Matthews, I think, recommended him to me, Dr. Millard-someone or other...”

_ “Dr.  _ Miller _?” _

“Ye- _ ahh, _ that sounds right.”

_ “One moment, sir.” _

I wait a moment, staring at my Toshiba television. I wonder what I’ve missed on _The_ _Patty Winter’s Show._ Last I can remember, Donald Trump had been a guest on the show. Before I have the chance to wonder if that had been a whole hallucination in itself, the nagging tone of the mental hospital lady returns, and we’re discussing dates. I hide my shock upon learning that the year is 1990 and it’s only March, my eyes darting to the calendar on my wall. It’s old, the year reading 1989, the month not having changed from December. Hadn’t two years passed? Hadn’t I gone Christmas shopping again at some point? _Am I really still twenty-seven years old?_

_ “Sir?” _

“It’s...Wednesday, right?”

_ “It’s Saturday, sir.” _

That’s why Jean hadn’t gotten ready for work. No, she would’ve stayed with me regardless.

“Alrighty...how ‘bout this coming Thursday then?”

_ “Dr. Miller’s only got times available for Tuesday and Friday.” _

I bite my tongue. Bitch.  _ “Fine,  _ then Friday.”

_ “I’ve got 8:00 AM, 10:30 AM, noon, 3:45 PM, 5:00...” _

“5:00 is good,” I answer hurriedly, wanting this phone call to be over already.

_ “Alri-i-ight, and do you have health insurance, Mr. Bateman?” _

Do I? “Probably.”

Truthfully, I don’t know, but I assure the cunt that I’ll bring over my card or whatever when I come in, and just as she’s telling me she hopes I have a good day, I hang up. That’s one problem taken care of. It’s not worth it to even be present for the appointment on Friday, but I figure I’ll go anyway. Don’t want to have to deal with the phone calls asking about my absence, nor have Price or Jean worry over me more than they already are.

I turn off my stereo and spend my afternoon watching  _ Nightmare on Elm Street 2,  _ and while it isn’t as good as the first, the deaths in this film are much more intense, much gorier, making it a fun watch. As always, I skip through the scene at the gay bar, thinking that it would have been a much better film had that scene not been in it. Seeing men hanging around each other like that is enough to make me sick. I wonder why they’d decided to keep that in at all. The scene where Freddy Krueger kills the Ron Grady character later on in the movie is enough to banish any memories of that, thankfully, and while I’m still a bit on edge when the credits roll, I am put at ease when I imagine myself as Freddy at Evelyn’s party, slaughtering all of the guests in my path with my finger knives.

I consider watching porn and masturbating again, but after this morning...no. I decide to pull out  _ Texas Chain Saw Massacre _ instead, as well as  _ Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2,  _ deciding I’ll have a double feature tonight. The sky outside darkens, and just as I slip the first film into the Toshiba VCR, there’s a tapping at the door, a knocking. I ignore it for a moment, but then it gets louder and someone’s yelling my name on the other side.

“ _ Bateman.  _ Hey, c’mon, Bateman, I know you’re in there. Better not be jerking off watching some lesbian porn again or something. I  _ swear, _ you’re addicted to that shit.”

Price. I answer the door, opening it halfway. Price is dressed in casual wear, woolen pants by Bill Blass, and a button-up with palm trees on it by Gucci.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Price sighs. “Do I have to ask  _ permission _ to come inside? Your apartment isn’t some chick’s pussy, Bateman.”

“Why’re you  _ here _ ?” I ask, almost rolling my eyes at him. His arms are crossed over his chest.

“Because I care about you, you asshole.” He pops his head in and, reluctantly, I step aside as he crosses the threshold of my place. “Figured I’d make sure you didn’t pop a handful of pills again. Though I dunno if you’re even smart enough to have a secret stash.”

My television screen goes static before showing the slow crawl of the credits to  _ Texas Chain Saw.  _ I grab the remote and rewind the tape, and as Price glances over, he whines.

“Jesus, Bateman, the Leatherface flick again?” Though he’s complaining, he sits on the couch in front of the TV, one leg crossing over the other. “I dunno why you like this shit so much. This one in particular’s kinda freaky, y’know, like a snuff film.”

Since when has Price willingly watched a horror film with me? Sure, I’d forced him to watch  _ Texas Chain Saw _ years ago, but he hadn’t been happy about it. Why is he even  _ here _ ? What had changed since his disappearance and sudden return?

“That’s what makes it so  _ good,  _ Price,” I explain, sitting next to him, smirking as the film fully rewinds itself, starting at the beginning. Unable to help myself, I pitch in, “This was all based off of Ed Gein, y’know? So was  _ Psycho,  _ and—”

“Yeah, yeah, calm your tits, Bateman, I know.” He rubs at his nose, a habit he’s had from years of snorting coke, and sits back as the film starts. 

The film continues, and during the scene the kids kick out the psychopathic hitchhiker from their van — which is a  _ spectacular  _ performance by Edwin Neal — Price speaks again. 

“Bateman...y’know I think you should take off of work.” I am perturbed by what he’s said, half-paying attention, half-watching as the hitchhiker in the film rubs his blood all over the side of the van. “You listening, man?”

“What do you mean ‘take off’?” I ask, and for a moment, the character of Sally becomes Jean, and I am the wheelchair bound Franklin. “This isn’t because of what happened, is it?”

“You almost fucking died,” Price huffs, aggravated. Hadn’t he been the one who launched himself off a balcony? “Of course it’s because of what happened. I know I can’t really force you, but...at the least, try takin’ off a week.”

I remember my appointment on Friday. I purse my lips, not answering.

“Christ, Bateman.” He tilts his head towards me. “What goes  _ on _ in that monkey brain of yours? You know, I talked to Jean, apparently you two—”

“Shh,” I silence him, Jean’s name making my heart skip a beat, “Leatherface is coming in.”

As expected, Price sighs, taking the hint. “Goodie. You think he wears other people’s face’s because he doesn’t know how to take care of his own?”

I don’t say anything to that, fully engrossed in the film. It must be later than I’d originally thought, for once the film ends and I insert the sequel — Price is going off about my health by then, mentioning something about Jean, and I do my best to ignore him — I sit myself down on the sofa cushions and fall asleep within ten minutes. 

I dream about Jean. I keep dreaming about Jean.

Where does she fall in my life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all SO MUCH for ur feedback!! pls feel free to comment below abt the fic!


	4. TUNNEL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR POSITIVE FEEDBACK IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME!!!!!
> 
> warning!! this chapter has certain triggering subjects such as: illegal drugs (cocaine), f slurs (it’s used twice and censored), and misogyny

I return to work on Monday, despite Jean and Price’s best efforts at trying to convince me that doing so is not a good idea. I disagree, as the weekend alone had been a complete disaster due to being holed up in my apartment. I could have left, but the fear of running into either of them, more notably Jean, nearly caused me to spiral into a major-grade anxiety attack all Sunday. The Xanax hadn’t helped, I’d been afraid to masturbate ever since the incident in the shower on Saturday, and any indulgence into fantasies of torture seemed to drag me further and further away from reality.

This is why working at  _ Pierce & Pierce  _ is a constant, an excuse to return my life to normality. This morning, I’d even managed to go forth with my usual routine, disgusted with the greasiness of my hair, and my general lack of self-care. While doing my daily stomach crunches, I’d realized that the events over the weekend had meant nothing. The murders had meant nothing. Paul Owen meant nothing. I would be returning to normal, floating along my peers, a faceless entity. I hadn’t acknowledged Jean’s entrance into my apartment during this introspection (she now comes over every day, pills in hand, ready for me, like she’s my own personal doctor or something), as I didn’t want to be reminded of the possibility of a new reality, of any reality other than my world. The only reminder left behind is the gauze wrapped around my hand. There will be a scar. It troubles me that it will stay there forever. 

I’m sitting at my desk now, my Sony Walkman raised to a deafening volume, blaring Phil Collins’s “Sussudio” in my ears. Today, I’m wearing a black, woven-linen suit and linen shirt by Basile, my silk tie by Joseph Abboud, and leather shoes by Allen-Edmonds. Jean is back to working as my secretary, a job she has even outside of the workplace. I deliberately do not look at her, reading the  _ Times  _ and mumbling orders like “cancel lunch with Ted Madison” and “I have plans, just say  _ no”  _ even though I don’t think I have reservations or plans or anything. She tries asking me how I’m doing, that I should be home, but then I’m slipping my headphones on and trying not to stare at her and take note of what she’s wearing today. I think it’s a blouse or something from Chanel, but I do not look for long. Speaking to her reminds me of when she’d stayed with me at the hospital, as well as when she’d stayed overnight, and then I recall imagining her in the shower and I’m suddenly hard. Intrusive thoughts such as  _ she wants you, just give her what she wants,  _ and  _ you know she gets herself off thinking about you, _ and then I remember us at the café Nowheres, when she’d confessed her feelings, but I knew then and I know now that nothing will come of any relationship and that it isn’t possible, even though I’m imagining us kissing, holding hands in Central Park, seeing  _ Les Mis _ , the song “Total Eclipse of the Heart” ringing in our ears as we undress and make out by candlelight and we’re both naked and it’ll never happen, nothing ever lasts forever, and I don’t want anyone to be happy. 

According to the  _ Times,  _ someone committed suicide by jumping onto the subway tracks. 

At noon, I meet up with George Reeves, David Van Patten, Craig McDermott, and Luis Carruthers for lunch at Harry’s. Tim Price is nowhere in sight. I don’t think he’d even showed up for work today. I am slightly on edge by this, but then a hardbody waitress walks past our table —  _ totally _ fuckable — and I’m put at ease as I imagine myself fucking her and not my secretary.

“How ya been, Bateman?” 

Van Patten’s voice breaks me from my thoughts. I turn my attention to him, noticing that he’s sitting next to McDermott, and Reeves next to him, and Carruthers beside him. My gaze does not linger on Luis for long. Too many unpleasant memories, too many of them probable hallucinations. I consider asking him if he and Courtney are still getting married, but then again, I would rather not speak to him should any of our past encounters turn out to have happened. He seems flustered, nervous, and that alone makes my stomach twist into knots. I know it, I  _ know _ he’s looking at me, checking me out. Fucking f*g.

Using a napkin at the table, I wipe at the sweat forming on my brow and focus on McDermott, who is speaking to me I think. McDermott is wearing a double-breasted wool suit by Alexander Julian, a cotton shirt, a tie by Perry Elli, and I think ostrich loafers by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards. I admire his tastefulness, and Luis’s wandering eyes are forgotten.

“...wonder if she’d like this piece of ass, huh, Bateman?”

I blink. McDermott is addressing me. I pretend to have heard what he said and smile, nodding.

“Oh yeah,  _ definitely _ .” I gulp, and they’re all staring at me. I pull my sleeve further over my healing hand. “You were always a hit with the ladies, McDermott.”

“Hamlin here doesn’t think so,” McDermott sighs, gesturing to Todd Hamlin, who I’d thought was George Reeves. “Now that Evelyn’s free though, y’know.”

I blink. “Yeah, uh...Evelyn _. _ ”

“You been livin’ under a rock?” Van Patten asks, noticing my confusion, swirling around his rum and diet coke. “Everyone’s been talking about it. You blew up in her face, apparently?”

“Shit, you told  _ Evelyn Williams  _ off? Bateman, my man, you got balls of fuckin’ steel,” Hamlin laughs, high-fiving McDermott. I say nothing, waiting for the subject to change. Unfortunately, just as I manage to relax and they begin discussing climate change or AIDS or whatever, Luis speaks up.

“Patrick, what happened to your hand?” The fucking f*ggot points to my hand. I regret not strangling him in Barney’s, because then all of them notice. A thousand eyes are on me. 

“Damn,” McDermott laughs, “what happened, fuck your fist too hard?”

The subject is forgotten as they high-five each other. Luis doesn’t join in, instead fiddling with the lapels of his suit, which, though I do not know who it is by, I dislike for its repulsive brownish color. As the evidence of my injury is forgotten, I am partly relieved, partly disappointed. These conflicting emotions do not last when the first course arrives, pushing this weekend’s events behind me as I’m served some kind of grilled meat with a side of what I believe is raspberry vinegar.

The day passes in a blur. Price leaves at least two dozen voicemails for me. Jean visits my office every hour, and I do not acknowledge her. I ignore the files my secretary sets on my desk, instead gearing all of my attention towards my Panasonic pocket watch, compatible with a three-inch diagonal color TV, watching _Jeopardy!_ and hallucinating that Paul Owen is in place of Alex Trebek. The Daily Double is “Are you a deranged fucking psychopath?” and obviously, I tell myself that the answer is yes. When the correct answer is “No, it was all in your head, you’re _nothing_ to these people,” I promptly break down in tears for what I think is an hour or so, curling myself on the couch on the far side of my office, just in case my secretary sees me. When I’m no longer crying, I get another call from Price. Before he can leave a message, I unplug my phone and throw it against the wall. It breaks with a loud _crack_ that vividly reminds me of the cracking of bones. I toss it in the trash bin.

McDermott, Van Patten, and Charles Hamilton want to meet up at Tunnel tonight, for “ole’ times sake” they say. I do not change clothes, I don’t even leave work until it’s time to head over, and I’m distantly aware that my secretary is trying to speak to me again but I just turn my Walkman’s volume up all the way and hurriedly stroll out of my office. The drive to the club feels slow, too slow. I remember when I’d ridden in a cab with Price, when he’d ranted about hating his job, among other things, and I hadn’t found it in myself to agree with him then. I envy his freedom. I’ll never know where he went. I’ll never know how he managed to climb up on that balcony and jump and run down the tracks, the tracks that lead into the tunnel, the tunnel that leads to the abyss. 

My hands are trembling as we’re let into the club, the world moving in slow motion, everything drowned out by what sounds like the song “Don’t You Want Me.” I think I see Jean in the crowd, and feeling inexplicably nervous, I approach her, but she turns to me and it’s Elizabeth and she’s giggling and she says to me “oh _Paul_ how’s the Fisher Account,” and before I can tell her _I’m not Paul,_ someone grabs my arm and drags me to the entrance of the men’s restroom. Van Patten is talking about some hardbody he fucked last night as he shoves a glass of Stoli on the rocks in my grasp. I’m so unsteady I barely swallow the drink, half of it splashing onto my Basile suit, ice sticking to my trousers. Hamilton is yelling over the music, something about cocaine, screaming over _“don’t you want me, ohhh”_ and it feels like a dream, like a nightmare. Price isn’t here.

I end up sharing a stall with Van Patten, not even giving him a chance as I open the gram and carefully pour the power-like drug onto the toilet seat, using my AmEx to cut into it. “True Faith” is muffled through the restroom walls; my chest seizes up in existential horror. I hear McDermott in another stall explaining to Hamilton that there aren’t any girls with good personalities, and as Van Patten cheers him on from behind me, I roll up a hundred dollar bill, crouch beside the toilet, and snort a line. It’s not cut with Sweet N’ Low like last time, thank Jesus, and just the anticipation of the high has me on my feet, talking faster than I can think. Rubbing my nose, I watch as Van Patten takes his turn, and I wonder what Price would say now. I wonder if Jean would be disgusted in me for doing drugs, as if I haven’t done worse. Price isn’t here.

I’m dancing with Tiffany and Sabrina, their skulls cracked open, bleeding, brains exposed and leaking some kind of brown liquid. They’ve got their hands all over me, caressing my face, my crotch, and I’m repulsed. The lights of Tunnel are blinding, burning my retinas, and I realize that Huey Lewis has been singing “Hip to be Square” for the past twenty hours. The girls are making out now, chewing each other’s lips off, coughing up blood, and choking out my name. I stumble, pushing Bethany away, in a daze and unable to stay upright. I’m standing on the balcony that overlooks the dance floor, clutching onto the railing, face covered in a sheen of sweat. Someone says to me, “Halberstam, how’s the Hawkins Account going?” but it isn’t Paul Own, it’s Todd Madison, no, Reed Someone Or Other, I don’t know. All snowflakes are alike.

“I’m leaving.” I’m salivating. Blood trickles from my nose. A nameless face grabs my shoulder.

“Where you gonna go, huh?” he asks, bursting into laughter, breath reeking of alcohol. I want to slit his throat, and as the guitar swells, I think that “Hip to be Square” is one of Huey’s undisputed masterpieces, a song so catchy most people don’t listen to the lyrics, but they should, because it’s not just about the pleasures of conformity, and the 

“I’M — LEAVING!” I screech like a banshee and I remember when Price did this, I remember when he’d watched the tracks going  _ into  _ the Tunnel, I remember that there’s an escape — but an escape from  _ what?  _ — and I want it, I want that, I want to go, to go somewhere to be someone be  _ someone  _ and it was a mistake to come here and I don’t want to lose myself and I  _ want to be loved  _ and then Patrick’s grabbing onto the railing and climbing it and he’s yelling he’s yelling I’m yelling I want out I want out—

“GOODBYE  _ FUCKHEADS!!!” _

I somehow don’t break anything when I leap down to the first floor of the club. Pushing myself back to my feet, I sprint down the tunnel, out of Tunnel, towards something different. I don’t know how long I run for. I run until I can’t hear Huey Lewis and the News; I run until my surroundings are shrouded in complete darkness; I run until I’m stopped by a pair of arms and a stranger asking, “Dude, what the fuck?” I don’t know how Price got here, but he’s leading me down the street, hailing a cab, and I’m so high I think the driver is Jean’s dismembered corpse, her head bashed in. I cry into Price’s shoulder, begging to be free, to go away.

I’m pretty sure he says, “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again thank you for all of your feedback!!


	5. APPOINTMENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading!!!! ur comments mean the absolute WORLD to me!!!!
> 
> (triggers in this chapter: ableism, a homophobic slur, panic attacks, and just a Lot of horrific and gory hallucinations)

I’m sitting in the waiting room at the Manhattan Psychiatric Center, tapping my shoes to the floor, staring off into the abyss at nothing. Headphones sit securely on my head, and I’m listening to “Simply Irresistible,” the first track of Robert Palmer’s 1988 album  _ Heavy Nova _ through my Walkman, not as loudly as usual, just enough to block the strange, ethereal music playing from the shitty radio at in this lifeless clinic. The chair I’m sitting in is small, uncomfortable, to the point where, after ten minutes of waiting, I find another seat, no more comfortable than the last. The only other individuals surrounding me are a blind man wearing thick shades, his mutt of a dog slobbering and panting at his side, and an anorexic blonde who’s more bone than flesh. Anxiety stirs as I ask myself: have I been reduced to their level?

Today I’m wearing a double-breasted wool and silk sport coat from Armani, button-fly wool and silk trousers with inverted pleats by Mario Valentino, a cotton shirt by Gitman Brothers, a patterned silk tie by Claiborne, and leather shoes from Brooks Brothers. I’d decided to dress my best today, wanting to show that perhaps I am a changed man, that I don’t need any more therapy than the sessions with my psychiatrist, but the moment I’d entered the hospital I knew I was doomed. The exchange between the nurse at the front desk had been long and tedious, and I’d considered screaming right in that fat cunt’s face more than once, but I knew people would see. If I lost it in a place full of crazies they’d strap me up without a second thought, I know they would. I wonder if the office of doctor M-something is going to be a padded room. A full body shudder overtakes me over me midway through “Change His Ways.” I turn up the volume, considering taking a Xanax. I reach for the pocket of my Armani coat, before realizing that I don’t have anything with me. I bring my hands together, inhaling shakily, wishing that I were dead, wishing I weren’t here.

Jean hasn’t spoken to me since Tunnel. Price hasn’t contacted me at all. I remember little from that night (though, as I’ve discovered, I really can’t rely on my memories). I remember the cocaine, the rush of the high, and then...endless space. Floating in nothingness. Despite the coke having made me feel everything at once, I’d felt absolutely  _ nothing,  _ and no amount of dancing or drinking could cure the numbness. Somehow, I’d woken up in my apartment, in my bed, two Xanax and a glass of water set on my nightstand. That entire day, the only time I ever moved was when I’d knelt over the bathroom toilet and vomited, blood trickling down my left nostril. 

The pills continued to show up over the next few days, left behind by Jean. She dared not show her face to me anymore. I’d focused all of my energy into my vigorous workout routines to compensate for the sudden hole that had opened up inside me due to her absence. I’d thrown out my porno tapes, tired of looking at the covers and seeing Tiffany and Christine and Sabrina and so many others, smashing some to pieces; I’d pay for it later. I hadn’t left my apartment once. I hadn’t worn anything but Comme des Garçons t-shirts and Ralph Lauren boxer shorts around my apartment. I hadn’t wanted to show my face. I don’t want to show my face. I don’t want to be here.

Yet I am. Is it because Price told me to? Or because Jean is worried about me? I’m not doing this for anyone. I’ve not done anything for anyone. This is for myself, I think. No — actually this is because I’d ended up in the hospital because I hurt myself. This is because I’m not some self-hating freak who can only feel if he’s slicing his arm with a shard of glass or swallowing a bottle of antidepressants. I wouldn’t be able to feel anything even if I  _ did _ do those things, anyway, but that’s obvious.

One of the office doors opens. I lower the volume of my Walkman, waiting with bated breath to hear my name. Instead, I see a woman exiting, dabbing at her tear streaked face, sniffling. I try not to appear surprised when she lifts her head and I realize that it’s Courtney, wearing a wool jacket and a sleek black dress Bill Blass, gold plated earrings by Gerard E. Yosca and pumps from Manolo Blahnik. Her makeup is washed out, messy, and it looks like she’s been crying. I wonder if she’s spoken with her therapist about Luis, about her doomed marriage with that fucking loser. The corner of my mouth twitches in an amused smile, and that’s when she sees me. We haven’t spoken since Courtney insisted that we break it off. I’m on edge, then, wondering if she’ll say something. But her glance towards me lasts barely a few seconds before she leaves, walking towards the elevator to the first floor. I’m left with the void, the emptiness, no one to watch but a man who can’t see and a woman who might as well be dead. 

For a brief moment, I hallucinate skeleton girl to be Christine, a Black and Decker 20-Volt MAX Lithium Cordless chainsaw lodged in her stomach, her bulging eyes staring into my soul, blood and vomit dripping from her mouth. I clutch onto the armrests of the chair, trembling harder as she croaks  _ die yuppie scum,  _ and before I can scramble to the bathroom to escape the living nightmare, someone on the far end of the tunnel calls my name. I rip off my headphones and jump to my feet, expelling a breath from my lungs. Vision clearing, Christine is gone, the anorexic girl in her place, not even acknowledging my presence, focusing instead on the  _ Vogue  _ magazine in her hands. I’m a ghost.

“Mr. Bateman?”

Someone had called my name. No longer trapped at the end of a long, never ending tunnel, I blink rapidly and spin on my heel. A young man in a white coat, who I assume is Dr. Mill-someone, stands in the hall, waiting expectantly. I nod in his direction, slicking back a stray piece of hair, wet from my morning shower and the mousse I’d applied. Trying and failing to steady my short, frantic breaths, I approach the stranger, the very individual whose job it is to psychoanalyze me. I’m confident that he won’t get far, of course, and after a brief exchange where he corrects his name, assuring me that it’s  _ Miller  _ and not  _ Millard,  _ we stride down the long, white halls of the hellish labyrinth. I imagine stepping through one of the many doors I pass, subsequently falling into a pit of fire, engulfing my body, burning my skin as I scream in agony. Lucifer cackles at my torture, and for a moment, his face warps into the CEO of Pierce & Pierce, who I only then remember is my father. My legs twitch and tremble. I think I see Ted Bundy waving at me from afar. The doctor opens the door to his office. I enter, holding my breath.

The first thing I notice is that the room is too small, and I wrinkle my nose as the strong scent of lavender pervades the air. Sitting on the armchair opposite from where Dr. Miller sits, I notice the picture frame on his desk, a photo of a woman, a child, and a dog on it. I then take note of the fact that he’s got a clipboard in his hand, and is writing  _ something  _ down with his Pilot pen. His shoes are by A. Testoni. I want to know what he’s writing.

“So-o-o, Mr. Bateman.”

My skin crawls as he once again utters my name. I adjust my tie and bring my hands together, squeezing hard enough that my nails dig into my skin, though the pain is nothing but an afterthought.

“Dr. Matthews recommended me to you?” he asks, and I’m chanting “self-absorbed prick, fucking asshole” in my head, over and over, as he pretends to be friendly with me.

“That’s  _ right, _ doctor.”

“Oh, no, please, call me Nick,” he insists. I lower my hands and grip at my knees. Against my best wishes, he goes on and asks me, “Why is it that he sent you here?”

I think to myself that I wasn’t sent here, I was given a _recommendation,_ but I compose myself. Momentarily, I see Paul Owen in the doctor’s place, half of his skull exposed, brain matter and some kind of grey stuff leaking from the wound and his eyes. He toasts to me with his glass of Acacia and then he’s gone. Dr. Mill-whoever is waiting.

“It’s not...on file?” My tongue feels like sandpaper. I need a Halcion. I stare at my torturer for a moment, sitting up straight. He shrugs.

“Yeah, but I’d figured I’d hear it from you. But it’s fine, we don’t need to talk about it, Patrick.”

I take a sharp inhale, my heart pounding painfully against my chest. “Just Mr. Bateman is fine.”

“Oh, I like keeping things on a first-name basis with my patients,” he says and I want to cry, I want to rip the skin off of my face. “But if you insist. Mr. Bateman, are you alright?”

I don’t know why I agreed to this. I don’t know why this is worse than my psychiatrist. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong in a hospital.

“Fine, fine.” I clap my hands together. “Maybe, uh, drugs!”

The bastard laughs, actually fucking _laughs,_ and I wonder if I could take that goddamn pen of his and drive it into his throat. I’m on the verge of a breakdown, the motherfucker knows it, and he’s grinning, he’s — fucking — _laughing!_

“I already have a list here of your prescriptions here.” 

I nod, complying without much thought, fidgeting in my seat, wondering if, at any moment, a group of men in white will grab me by the hair, drag me away, kicking and screaming. 

“Xanax, Halcion, Nuprin, and Valium.  _ Hoo…” _ He whistles, leaning back against his chair, crossing one leg over the other. The air is stuffy. I can’t breathe. “Says here you were diagnosed with acute depression and anxiety.”

_ “You talked to him?” _ I ask in disbelief, and I realize I haven’t turned off my Walkman, “Casting a Spell” playing faintly, the soundtrack to the horror movie I’m living, or dreaming. The doctor shakes his head.

“I just acquired your files.” 

I sniff, rubbing at my nose, wiping my sweating palms on my Mario Valentino trousers, tapping my feet to a non-existent hythm, staring into the crack at top corner of the room, imagining myself being stuck there, miniaturizing and crawling away, escaping reality,  _ escaping. _

“...do you need a moment, Mr. Bateman?”

_ “Huh?” _ I rasp, sucking in lungfuls of air. The asshole slips off his glasses, eyeing me suspiciously, staring into my soul. He knows what I’ve done, I know it, I  _ know  _ it (no, no, he knows what I  _ think _ I’ve done, what I think what I think).

“Tell me about yourself.” His words stop time and I fumble for words, everything too much, everything hot and stuffy, the air poison. Somewhere, I hear him add, “Unless, you need to step out for a moment.”

My cheeks redden in embarrassment. Cocksucking motherfucker  _ knows  _ me. Fucker  _ knows what he’s doing  _ and I can’t stop the violent hallucinations of digging my thumbs into his eyes, gouging them out, digging my teeth into his flesh as he laughs and mocks  _ You worthless f*ggot, choke on your dick you pathetic piece of shit. _

“My childhood was fine.” It’s the first lie I come up with. I can’t recall a single moment from my childhood. Nothing at all. The more I dwell on it, the tighter the collar of my Gitman Brothers shirt becomes, and so I hurriedly move on, trying to not take notice of the image of my mother in the corner, watching me behind dark-tinted shades. “She—My dad was, uhm...fine. He cared about me and my brother, Sean. We grew up in Long Island. I went to Harvard, he went to, uhm, Camden College...then, I, erm, graduated from Harvard Business School in ‘86, and-and now I work at Pierce & Pierce, which my...father is the CEO of.”

My tormentor nods, scribbling something onto the paper before him. I’m out of breath. What is he up to? “What do you do?” 

“I’m an-an investment banker,” I answer, and I think it’s the truth. “Mergers and acquisitions.”

“I see.” More writing. Asshole. “How’s that hand of yours doing?”

I nearly collapse in that very moment, dead. I’d forgotten about what  _ happened. _ I’d forgotten about the fucking bandages. “Fine. Healing.”

_ The Patty Winter’s Show  _ this morning was about psychopaths who aren’t really psychopaths. I was the guest. They’d admitted me to an asylum and clapped as I was tied down and electrocuted.

“Mr. Bateman...” Dr. M-fucking-whatever drawls out my name. I’m so close to gagging, keeling over and expelling my breakfast, which I’m not entirely sure I’d eaten. “Your childhood. What else can you tell me about it?”

I gag. My mind goes blank.

“...did you know that Ted Bundy used to work a suicide hotline?”

I’m sweating bullets by now. The doctor’s lips curl into a grin.

“Your job then.” I feel like I’m being watched as he talks to me. They’re watching me. “What do you  _ really _ do?”

I don’t know. I give him an answer, but my mouth is moving of its own accord. I don’t know what I really do. I don’t know what’s real, and it’s getting worse, it’s getting worse  _ again.  _ He knows it. He fucking knows it. No one knows. No one knows but him, and he  _ shouldn’t _ know, he can’t hold it over me like some sort of fucking god he can’t he  _ can’t. _

The session ends. I don’t know what I’ve said, I don’t know what had occurred in those last forty minutes. But the doctor’s nodding and shaking my hand and I’m afraid he’ll break it. I rush out of the building, only allowing myself to run off once I’m outside, leaning my back against the wall, grateful for the freedom, grateful to breathe. I know I can’t go back. I know I can’t face it again. No one will know or care about my absence. Life will resume as normal.

Courtney’s naked, rotting corpse emerges from the hospital. She waves at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reviews and critiques are always appreciated!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [@honkyychateau](https://www.honkyychateau.tumblr.com)!


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